Old Roads: Waking Hours
by tjadis
Summary: -"And I told you before. I've walked old roads, and learned old magic." All she wants is to come home, but what is home to the Hero of Ferelden? And what trouble is traveling in her wake? PC/Alistair, PC/Zevran, Human Mage origin. Part 1 of "Old Roads".
1. Prologue: On Old Roads

**Prologue: On Old Roads**

* * *

_9:27 Dragon_

_Somewhere in the Korcari Wilds_

_._

_Kathil:_

She grimaced and grunted, twisting Spellweaver in the flesh of the thing that had just crashed to the ground in front of her. The thing made a high whine and shuddered, then went still.

She took a deep breath and pulled her blade free of the thing's stinking flesh. Lorn barked once, happily. Dead! The bad thing was dead!

"It is," she told him. She wiped her hand on her trousers and ran it over her braided hair. The thing had surprised her at the edge of the old road, and it had somehow managed to cross fully over into the mortal world from the Fade when she'd fought it. _That's new. And worrisome._ She'd been out of armor, heading to a nearby stream to wash, and it had been a stroke of luck that she'd even had Spellweaver on her.

The creature was the size of a drake, with a roundish body and far too many limbs tipped with claws. She couldn't figure out which limb was the head; it had a mouth surrounded by razored teeth on the front of its body, but no eyes. Yet it had most certainly _not_ been blind. It had spat a caustic substance at her as an opening volley, but she'd dodged most of it. Her shirt sleeve was never going to be the same, though.

Dark wings fluttered at the corner of her vision. She swallowed, and shoved them back to the deep recesses of her mind. Lorn was leaning against her hip, and she smoothed down the fur on his head.

_How long has it been? _

She remembered two springs, two summers, one winter. The leaves were turning gold and red as she made her way deeper into the Wilds, and there was frost on the ground in the morning when she and Lorn woke. So it had been almost two years since she'd shoved her sword through the neck of an Archdemon. She wondered if anyone had noticed that she was gone.

_Probably not._

The things that had driven her onto the old roads did not bear thinking of. Only the things she was learning. Ancient, wild magics that were part of an answer to a question she was only now beginning to put into words.

Kathil ruffled Lorn's ears and turned away from the dead thing. The breeze was pushing little white clouds over the pale sky. It was a nearly perfect autumn day.

The only warning she had was a rustle of leaves.

She was flying sideways as the thing she had thought she'd killed slammed into her. She hit the ground hard, and her sword hand was empty—she raised a hand to call a storm—

The thing's razored mouth closed on her shoulder, and she couldn't feel the side of her face, and the spell fled her mind as she screamed. Lorn howled, and howled—

Black wings closed around her and bore her away.


	2. The Scars that Silence Carved

**One: The Scars That Silence Carved**

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_Hello, and welcome to Old Roads!_

_This is the story that started it all, the story that I swore I was going to write and never show anyone. A novelette, a novella, and three novels later (not to mention a number of side stories), that theory seems to have been quite thoroughly disproven. Old Roads is complete as of mid-2011, and now I'm going back and fixing continuity errors and formatting on these earlier stories._

_Waking Hours is a novelette, long enough to get a taste of the story but short enough to finish in an afternoon. It's an excellent place to start. The Old Roads continuity is an AU, as there are a number of small details that differ from game lore. It was started before Awakening came out and finished after DA2 came out. There are spoilers galore for DA:O, but none for DA2 until the epilogue of Pitiless Games, the last novel in the series._

_I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I loved writing in this world._

* * *

_Alistair:_

The fire flared and spat, consuming the crumpled ball of paper that Alistair had just thrown into it.

He picked up the pen again, stared at the sheet of paper on his desk. There were people in the palace who would take dictation. A phalanx of clerks, a legion of accountants, all of them perfectly able to take down his thoughts and twist them into something resembling reason. Kings never had to write their own correspondence.

(Would _Dear_ be too much? Was _Greetings_ too distant?)

It seemed right, though, that he would sit here and wrestle with his words and his conscience. _Love and duty,_ the witch had once said. _Which would you choose, if you had to choose between them? _

He supposed his life since was one long answer to that question.

Two and a half years since the Blight had ended. Two years since Kathil Amell, the Warden who had put her sword through the neck of the Archdemon, had vanished. And Alistair was still sitting here, trying to write letters to her, trying to find the words to say, _come home, I miss you._

No matter that this had never been her home, that he had given up all right to miss her on that terrible day when she'd stood before the Landsmeet and declared Alistair King.

He had never thought that he would miss constant battle, constant travel, from mountain to sea and back again, they had crossed Ferelden what seemed like a hundred times. But there had been other constants…one of them Kathil. His fellow Grey Warden, who'd been there at Ostagar, had seen the same things he had.

She had understood, more than understood. She never talked about her family because she had been taken from them, her memories of them destroyed. Mages had no families but the Circle. No bonds but magic. He had seen it with his own eyes, when Cullen—the Templar she had confessed a schoolgirl crush on—had thrown everything she could not help being in her face. _Temptress_, he had called her from his prison. The stupid, foolish boy had loved her, somehow. As Alistair might have loved her, had he taken his vows.

Alistair still remembered the way her shoulders had bowed, when she had turned to walk up the stairs to make the choice that would win back her home, the only family she had ever known…and lose the last of her oldest friends. He remembered when she had told Bann Teagan, when he asked her what should be done with the blood mage Jowan, _Execute him_.

Her voice had been soft, but strong. And she'd shed tears about it in the middle of the night. Jowan had been her friend since she'd arrived at the Tower.

Not all of her unpleasant wakings were due to dreams of darkspawn. Some of them were due to dreams of what she had lost, and what she feared to lose.

So what was he going to write, what could he write? _I hope you are well_, that was a truth. _I am doing well_—no, that was less of a truth. _I've married_—no, she knew that, she'd been there for the ceremony—_do you ever think of me at all?_

_I think I know who your family was._

A truth. Perhaps the cruelest truth of all.

He hadn't been impressed when he first met her. Skinny, pale from too many years locked in the Tower, and shivering with what he thought was awe and learned later was simple shock and terror.

He learned soon enough that she was sheltered, knew only life within strong stone walls, watched over every moment by men with swords with license to kill her should she weaken for a moment. A prisoner. She'd had barely any idea of what to do on the battlefield.

She'd learned. Pain had been her teacher, and she'd excelled under its tutelage. It took her longer to find her feet off the battlefield, though she seemed to take heart when he joked with her. Soon, Alistair was cracking jokes on the offhand chance that he would get to see her smile.

And then, one afternoon just after they'd left Lothering, she'd turned that on him and with a single sentence let him know that she saw right through him. She saw behind the deflecting humor. Saw right through to the scared, shy, awkward boy he was. He had not come nearly so far from the kitchen taunts he'd endured in Redcliffe as he'd thought—or hoped.

Alistair had gaped at her for a moment, and then realized that she was smiling. She saw the boy behind the armor, and she liked him.

He fell a little in love with her at that moment.

He fell a lot in love with her later.

She'd looked oddly familiar when they'd met, and for a time he had entertained notions that it was because they were somehow soulmates, that they had been marked by the Maker for one another.

Almost a year after he'd been crowned king, six months after he'd married the pragmatic nobleman's daughter who had been the least objectionable of a long list of choices, he realized why she'd looked familiar.

Those eyes, that mouth—it had taken him some time to place those features. The Arl of the Waking Sea had been a tall man, almost gaunt, and he'd worn a full beard. Alistair had met him when he was a boy of twelve, when the Arl had traveled to Redcliffe to visit Eamon. He hadn't been officially introduced, but he'd picked out Alistair from a group of boys and said hello.

The Arl's smile when Alistair had clutched the ball he'd been playing with to his chest was the same as the smile that his fellow Grey Warden had given him, the day she'd seen through all of his defenses. He'd died not six months later, to be replaced by his only living daughter. Alistair checked, when he remembered—the Arl had been recorded as having a daughter who'd died of winter fever when she was four.

Noble families never did admit when they sent a child to the Tower.

They did not like to remember. No one did.

The time between Ostagar and the Landsmeet blurred in his memory a little. There had been so much fighting and killing, so many unpleasant things they'd had to do together for the sake of gathering support against the Blight. He tried to keep that time clear in his mind, because despite the Blight, despite the blood, he had been happy. He'd had a purpose—_they'd_ had a purpose. All of them, together.

And then had come the Landsmeet, and the difficult conversation right afterwards.

They'd both known, of course, what Alistair becoming king would mean. Mages were stripped of their families, titles, names. The people of Ferelden would not tolerate one of the demon-touched so close to the throne.

They had known, and still they had gone through with it, though duty felt quite a lot like a sword through the chest.

_Can I take back the last two years of my life? The last good decision I think I made was the one to be with you._

He wasn't going to send this letter, of course. Nor had he sent the first seven letters he'd written. A king did not admit in writing that the choice that had been the best for his country had nearly destroyed his heart.

She had never written him. The last time he had seen her was on his wedding day. She had been present for the ceremony, outfitted in Grey Warden armor that had been made expressly for the occasion. She led the honor guard that escorted Alistair up the aisle, her warhound coursing solemnly at her side.

He'd felt her gaze on him the whole time he stumbled through the ceremony. And when he said those final words—_I swear on my soul and my hope of the Maker's forgiveness_—the feeling of that gaze had vanished. When he had turned, his hand in his new wife's, her place in the guard was vacant.

Alistair had hoped to glimpse her out of the corner of his eye at the celebration afterward. Perhaps he'd hoped for one last private meeting with his fellow Warden, a last quiet word, a last kiss.

She had removed that possibility as neatly as she would slit a darkspawn throat.

He crumpled up the parchment and threw it into the fireplace, and started anew. Trouble was, to send a proper letter you had to want something from the person you sent it to, even if it was only to share news. And yet, what news was there? _Rima is four months pregnant, but her pregnancy is already taking a toll on her body. The magi do not know if she will be able to hold onto the child, or if she will survive the birth if she does._

That was a secret. As were so many other things. He remembered coming back to his fellow Warden's room after he had spent that time with the witch. He barely knew why he'd found himself at her door, his head still ringing with the magic the witch had done to him, and to herself.

Kathil had opened the door and just stood there, looking at him. The tension in her shoulders spoke volumes of the things she knew better than to say. _Even if we win, we lose._

Defeat had never been an option.

Even if he finished a letter, he would have no idea where to send it. To the Circle, he supposed. Her phylactery was still in their stores, and they could find her no matter where she was. Even for something as trivial as a letter.

_A letter from the King. Not so trivial after all._

She'd promised him she would stay by his side, help advise him as he tried to get a grip on the whole kingship business. She'd tried, but she'd slowly begun to retreat into silence. She was a long time healing from the physical wounds the Archdemon had given her in that last moment, but the wounds to her soul seemed, if anything, to be getting worse. Wynne died within three months of that battle, and with her death some light in his fellow Warden had simply winked out. He hadn't known how much she'd been depending on the older mage, how much of Kathil's strength had been drawn from Wynne's serenity.

Then had come the wedding, and she had disappeared and taken her warhound with her.

He was writing now, despite himself. _Where are you now? Did you go to Orlais, to Antiva, to Rivain? Have you lost yourself in the Deep Roads or in the Fade? Are you still alive?_

_Do you ever think of me?_

He burned that letter, too.

The years he had spent as King had changed him, made him finally grow up. He had responsibilities, a kingdom to run, a good woman for a wife. He had a life ahead of him, a longer life than he'd thought he'd have but a shorter life than many. Twenty-seven years from now, when he was going to the Deep Roads as all Grey Wardens do, he wanted to go proud of what he had done with his life.

He told himself that his love for the mage was a thing of boyhood, that they had bonded in the fire and blood of the Blight, and that it would simply have to take its course. Being away from her would make the feelings fade.

It wasn't helping.

So he sat here in his study, feeding half-finished letters to the fire while his wife slept down the hallway, made uneasy by the restless shifting of the child within her. He was alone, having banished his guards to the hallway.

And then, no longer alone.

The hairs on the back of Alistair's neck rose as the currents of air in the room shifted. A presence interposed itself as a shadow of coolness between him and the fire. He shoved his chair back and jumped up, one hand going to the knife he always wore on his belt.

She wore armor made of dragonskin, well-worn and stained in places where blood would never be able to be scrubbed out. Her back was to him, and she was staring into the fire. He did not have to see her face to know exactly who she was. The colorless hair gathered into a long single braid, how she held her body, even the way she clasped her hands behind her back; all of it was a waking dream and nightmare both.

Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet and measured. "A very long time ago, men used to write prayers on pieces of paper and then burn them, thinking that the smoke would send their desires into the Fade, to the spirits, to the gods." Alistair's heart felt like it was tearing in two. She did not turn to him. "It is not recorded how the spirits read these messages. But I can vouch for the fact that the oldest magics still work. Yes, I still think of you, Alistair. My liege."

He sat down heavily. "I wish you wouldn't call me that."

"Do you? It seems to me that you have little choice in the matter." Kathil turned to him then, and he fought not to gasp as he saw her face for the first time in two years. A scar ran from her temple to her jaw, slashing across her cheek and touching the corner of her eye and her mouth, twisting them slightly. The scar was still fresh, angry red rather than silver. It was twisted and knotted with the telltale signs of having been left to heal without magic. Her black eyes regarded him with implacable calm that had unnerved so many people.

But he was not the boy he had once been—and neither was she the girl he had first met. "Where did you go, Kathil?" Speaking her name aloud was unexpectedly painful.

She stood still, looking at him. "Here and there. Chasing down rumors of old magic, old gods. I started finding these letters in the Fade, and I knew it was time to return." She let a breath out slowly, and her calm she held faded a little. "Alistair…we can never be anything to one another. You have your lady wife, and even if I could replace her, Wynne told me before she died that I am barren."

He started. "I knew the darkspawn blood made it—inadvisable –"

"The Joining's not to blame, for once." She folded her arms. "Ever wonder why mages rarely have children of their own? Not because they don't sleep with each other, Maker knows. The same ceremony that destroys our early memories also takes our ability to have children of our own. Only apostates never touched by the Circle are fertile." Kathil shook her head. "It's just as well. You have your life, and I have mine. I'll return to the Tower."

Her words made his heart leap into his chest, unexpectedly. The Tower was not that far, and at least he would have the luxury of knowing where she was. He wouldn't wake at night and wonder if she was all right, if she'd been surprised by one a darkspawn cell and slain, if she was alive or dead, if she needed his help.

"You look entirely too happy about that, Alistair," she said, the twist at the corner of her mouth deepening. "Care to tell me what's going on in that skull of yours?"

He shoved himself to his feet. "Two years. Two years and I never had a word from you. We fought side by side for a year. We killed an Archdemon together. And then you leave. You left me here alone—"

"With your pretty wife and a castle full of nobles." Her voice was ice, cutting through him. "Yes. So _alone_."

"You know what I mean." The words came out a growl. Maker's Teats, she could always anger him! "It just about killed me to think about you somewhere out there without anyone to guard your back. Wardens' lives are short, but I was afraid you were out there conspiring to make yours shorter."

She raised one eyebrow. "And it would make you look bad if the _Hero of Ferelden_ were to die within months of saving the place?"

Alistair opened his mouth to make a biting retort, and then he looked at her.

Truly _saw_ her for the first time since she had arrived.

She was thin, so thin that the skin stretched over her cheekbones. She looked a decade older than she should have, a battered veteran at the age of twenty-five. And as she had once seen through his defenses, he could see what lay beneath her calm.

Despair.

"Kathil," he said, his voice rough. "I worry about you. I miss you. We were family, once. More than family. That doesn't change."

She made a sound like a sob in the back of her throat, a sound as if she'd just been stabbed. "Doesn't it, Alistair?"

Everything fell into place. The letters, her appearance in his study, the mask he was all too familiar with, the way she was gritting her teeth. Oh, Maker, I hope you do watch over children and fools. "You went to Waking Sea, didn't you? You tried to find your family."

Her mask was gone entirely now, and she put one hand out to rest on the stone of the wall, looking down at her feet. "My sister—she's all that's left. And she refused to acknowledge me. I had to force my way in to see her, and she told me that _their_ family could not possibly have ever spawned a _mage_. I should have expected as much. I just wanted…"

"Wanted what?"

Now she raised her eyes and met his gaze. "I wanted somewhere I belonged again. I had that, during the war. Then it died along with the Archdemon. So back to the Circle with me. At least it's a familiar cage."

The words spilled out of him before he stopped to think—a reversion to the old Alistair, the one who never thought before he spoke. "You could stay here. With me. Us."

Kathil blinked at him. "What?"

He took a long breath. "In Denerim, at least. Look, I, ah…" This was bad. This was as bad as it had been when he'd first met her. _Two years a king, and all it takes is her showing up to turn me into a stammering boy. _"I feel responsible. I'm the one who did the research and wrote the letters. And you put me here by force of will alone. But by the _Maker_, I don't know what to do for you, Kathil. There are things I can't give you, though I would if I could."

It was the truth. It had always been the truth. Alistair felt the cold presence of memories pressing against him like a demon, all the things he wished he could find some way to take back. Kathil leaned on the wall, pressing her lips together until all color in them fled. "I…I appreciate the offer, Alistair. I just don't think it's a good idea. Cities and I don't get along at the moment. Everyone _stares_."

"I could issue a proclamation. No staring at Grey Wardens. Or I could tax Waking Sea into penury for you," he offered.

She stared at him a moment, and then chuckled hollowly. It was a pale shadow of the laugh he remembered, the laugh he always loved to provoke from her. "Don't," she said. "I'll be fine. I'll return to the Circle. I shouldn't have come here. I just—"

"Had your heart broken again." He kept his voice low. "And returned to the person who broke it the first time."

A shadow passed over her face. "Not the first time. People were breaking my heart long before I ever met you."

He knew that. It was part of what made her such a powerful mage, and such a good Grey Warden. "There is one thing." He shouldn't say this. He knew he shouldn't, and yet— "I travel often. Diplomatic visits, tours of the country, anything to get me away from this court. I take my guard with me, of course. It wouldn't be too strange to have a Grey Warden with me, to guard my back." _And so I can watch hers._

The moment stretched out into long heartbeats. She was silent, but he could see that she knew what he was offering. The only thing he could offer, given the circumstances. It was so much less than she deserved.

She took a breath, and broke the silence. "And your lady wife?"

Alistair grimaced. "It's a political match, and Rima is a practical woman. We have an agreement. She does not ask what I do elsewhere, as long as I don't do anything that would embarrass her at court." Not that he had ever taken advantage of that agreement. He had entered into the marriage fully intending to be faithful to the end of his days, especially knowing what it was like to be a royal bastard. But here, with the woman he would have vastly preferred to marry standing in front of him…

He blessed the foresight Rima possessed. She had known this might happen, some day.

There was another silence, this one longer. Kathil studied him as if looking for answers in his countenance and finding none. "I'd like that," she said at last. "Send a message to the Tower when you travel next. We can see if we're still comfortable traveling companions." _Comfortable_ was a word with razors hidden just below the surface. He felt heat rising to his face, a ghost of a blush. "I should go, Alistair."

"Before you do—how did you get in here? And where's Lorn?"

Kathil pushed herself away from the wall and took a step towards him. "Lorn's distracting your guards in the hall, begging for biscuits and making them play fetch. And I told you before. I've walked old roads, and learned old magic. Walking unseen and transporting short distances are just a few of the things I learned."

He stared at her. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that she was one of his greatest allies—and she would be one of his worst enemies should she decide to be. "Kathil?" he asked cautiously. "What were you looking for out there?"

She crossed her arms. "I believe you know." Her voice was low, and calm. "I told her I wouldn't look for her, but I lied. I didn't find her, Alistair. I found rumors, glimmerings, cold campsites. When she comes back—I hope she remembers us at least a little fondly. Otherwise we may wish we had all died at Fort Drakon."

A short, sharp bark sounded outside. "Send a message, Alistair," she said as he turned to the door. The study door opened, and Rima—Princess Consort Rima, his wife—peered around the doorframe.

Her golden hair fell loose around her shoulders, and her eyes were dull with interrupted sleep. Her gown hid the belly that was beginning to grow, their child lying uneasily there. "Were you talking to someone?" she asked. "And why is there a warhound playing with your guards?"

He did not have to look to know that Kathil was already gone. "Just talking to myself, dear," he said. "I should have come to bed an hour ago, I'm sorry." He went to his wife and put his arm around her shoulders, and took her back to bed.

* * *

_Kathil:_

The little boat creaked, water shushing past the bow, oars splashing into the water as Kester rowed them across the lake. The Tower loomed before them, dark bulk softened by the golden light of sunset. Lorn whined quietly and put his massive head on her knee. "It's all right, boy," she told him, scratching him behind the ears. He sighed and closed his eyes. He'd never liked boats.

The Tower. The Circle. Her cage and her home.

"I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself king of infinite space—were it not that I have bad dreams," she murmured.

"Eh, Warden?" Kester asked. "What was that?"

"Just something I read somewhere," she told him. "Onward. I am eager to be home."

Beneath her, the boat seemed to leap forward a little, as if it too were ready to be finished with its labors.

"A little bit longer." She stroked her wardog's head. "Then we can rest."

_For the moment._

All that she left behind waited, patient as darkness.


	3. Your Face Now In the Glass

**Two: Your Face Now In the Glass**

* * *

_Zevran:_

It was odd to be back at the scene of the crime.

Ferelden. The place where he'd given the second oath of loyalty he'd ever uttered, and where he'd helped slay a great devouring monster. Zevran knew that story, had heard it repeated in variously inaccurate renditions all over Antiva. Only a few mentioned him, and none mentioned that he was an assassin, and a Crow. _Pity. They could use the good publicity._

The tale had mutated in the telling. Most of them were about the lone Warden who had become King in Ferelden through, variously, underhanded betrayal or force of arms. _Ah, so stupid._ Everyone who had been there had known the stammering human male in the large armor hadn't been in charge in the slightest. That had been left to the mage who'd stood at his side, who had informed Alistair on a number of occasions that _this is__**not**__a democracy or even a republic, and__**you **__are the one who put me in charge_.

She was the one who he had given his oath to, none other. And as well, the reason he was back in Ferelden at all. _You can go, as long as you come back._

He had to admit to a desire to see her again. Fear, as well.

_I kick the hornet's nest and come back to you with demons on my heels, my sweet._

They had survived an Archdemon. Perhaps a murder of Crows would prove no trouble.

The first trick was finding her, of course. She had been determined to stay by Alistair, even after the man taken all of her work on his behalf to make him King and then…what was the term in her language?

Oh yes. Dumped her like yesterday's chamberpot.

And yet, she was not in Denerim, neither in the palace or the more entertaining parts of the city. The last time anyone had seen her had been over two years ago.

This was a problem. He was going to have to be on his way soon; the Crows had been less than ten days behind him, and he had used up most of that time in a fruitless search for Kathil. And, unfortunately, if the Crows arrived here and the city was not warned, there would be casualties. It would get…messy.

He hated such messes.

There was no help for it. He was going to have to go see the lout who had broken his Grey Warden's heart.

* * *

"You're…looking well, Zevran," the King said, though he looked as though he did not mean those words in the slightest. He was wearing clothing instead of armor and he had perhaps put on a little weight, but his handsome features were the same as always, as was the look he was giving Zevran.

Zevran bared his teeth. Perhaps it could be called a smile. "I will not waste your time, Alistair. The Crows are coming. Where is Kathil?"

The King's reaction was…confusing. First shock, rooted into place. Then his eyes narrowed, wary. They were alone; Zevran had requested a private audience with Alistair, and to his credit, the King had been man enough to wave his guards and advisors and nobles out of the room so they could talk. "The Crows? And why do you need Kathil?"

"It is complicated." Zevran spread his hands.

"It's you. It's always complicated." Alistair rubbed his temples. "Should I expect a rash of murders, then?"

"If I cannot find Kathil, the Crows may find that looking for me grows tiresome. They will seek other entertainment." He shrugged. "The farther from the roost, the more distractible they are. I recommend you tell me where Kathil is. I thought she was staying here."

"She tried. It didn't work out. Then again, not much does these days." He shook his head and grimaced. "Three days ago, I would have told you I hadn't seen her in years and she might well be dead."

Zevran gave the other man a steady look. "But it is today, yes?"

"It is that." Alistair sighed. "She…visited, two nights ago. She's back in Ferelden, and she's gone back to the Circle."

Now it was Zevran's turn to be rooted in place by astonishment. "She hated the Tower. She said so often enough. A prison for those foolish enough to be born with the talent. And she went back?"

"Something about…being the closest thing she has to a home at the moment." Alistair was avoiding Zevran's eyes, and for just a moment, he found it in him to pity the man. He'd had a chance Zevran would have—no, _had_ killed for—and he had wasted it. _If this were a civilized country, she could have been his official mistress, and everyone would have been happy._

Unfortunately, Ferelden was not civilized. He could see what had happened now. This place rang with echoes of her—how many alleyways and side streets had they fought in together here? She'd probably set half of the houses aflame personally. She'd run, finally. Brave Grey Warden, bested by her own hurt feelings.

But! He knew where she was. It was a start. "I'll take my leave, then. Watch for Antivans arriving in town. Though no small few of them are able to mimic your barbaric accent quite well, if I recall correctly."

"Oh, _no_, you do _not_." The shock had worn off. Alistair looked like he'd very much like to hit him, but he did remember the small arsenal of blades that Zevran habitually carried. "Before you leave, you are going to tell me why the Crows are after you, when I can expect them to show up, and why you think finding Kathil will help."

He waved a hand at the King. "You would not understand. It is a Crow matter. But they are less than two days behind me. If I make a bit of a mess before I leave, they will likely leave your city alone."

"And Kathil?"

"Again, a matter for the Crows."

Alistair, unfortunately, was used to Zevran. They'd traveled together for months, been covered in blood together. It made him pushier than most were with people who specialized in murder. "Zevran. Explain. Or I swear I will tie you up and have you transported to the Deep Roads."

Zevran used to be able to laugh this man off, once. He'd changed in the last few years. "You will not like it."

"And?"

The word hung in the air between them. Finally, Zevran shrugged. "I may have run into some old friends in Antiva. I _may_ have boasted that I had given my oath to the Grey Warden Kathil. One of them may have survived to take the news to the rest of the Crows. And it might be that the Crows have sent a flock of their best to find out if this is the case. Hypothetically speaking, of course, yes?"

"And _if_ this is the case, you need to find Kathil why?" Alistair's anger appeared to be growing with each passing heartbeat.

"There is no good way to leave the Crows, my friend. The best one is to convince them that you have found another master who will kill them all if they pursue. It is best if that master has no agendas that conflict with that of the Crows. So the flock has been dispatched to make sure that my new master is who I say she is." He chuckled. "Tch, and here I thought they trusted me."

Alistair was eyeing him, still. "Goes to show they're not fools."

"Ah, but _you_ trusted me, during the war. And what does that make you?"

The King crossed his arms. "I've been asking myself the same question for two years now, elf. Go. But if you get her killed—"

He lifted his chin. Oh, he could see what Kathil had seen in Alistair, during the war. He was a toothsome thing if you liked your men burly—which Zevran occasionally did. And protective. Very, very protective.

If there was one thing his Grey Warden was good at, it was gathering people around her who wanted to protect her. And who were obligated to her in one way or another. "I rather doubt that I will. And does not the Circle protect its own?"

"If they have the chance." Alistair turned and walked away, exposing his back to Zevran. There was an instant, when he longed to put a knife into that back. He quickly stifled the emotion. Killing Alistair, though tempting, would merely complicate his life further.

Ferelden was full of complications. And he'd come back of his own accord.

_To the Tower, then._ He'd have to run a few risks on the way out. There was that guard captain he'd done a few favors for when he was last here—now _there_ was a man worthy of bearing a sword, in all senses of the word—and perhaps the man could be persuaded to return those favors.

Already the day was looking better.

* * *

The place where he'd first met her lay on the road between Denerim and the Calenhad dock. He barely recognized it until he was standing in the middle of it, when rock and tree and dust assembled itself into a memory. Behind that ridge was where they had lain in wait, up there was where the archers had crouched.

It had been a good ambush, too. That it had failed had rankled his professional pride for some time, as had the false oath he'd sworn in order to keep his life another day. He'd planned to kill the Wardens in their sleep and vanish.

That first night, he'd sat apart from them and listened to Morrigan's bladed comments about the female Warden's warhound, a grumble from the big qunari who appeared to be on the dog's side, the older mage's sweet voice taking them both down a notch. The Grey Wardens both looked tired, and eventually they walked away from the fire together for a more private chat. From what Zevran could overhear, the one in the heavy armor was having some trouble with the death of his former commander.

Zevran had been tired that night, as well. He fell deeply asleep almost as soon as he'd lain down on the bedroll by the fire, and hadn't woken until false dawn was paling the sky. _Tomorrow night,_ he'd told himself. _I can stay one more day._

_One more day_ turned into _another week_ and the woman who he'd sworn his oath to had started worming his way into his head. He'd never had an assassination go _quite_ so wrong before, especially as one of his targets started proving uncomfortably perceptive. She'd figured out that he loved to talk shop, and even went so far as to ask him if he'd teach her how to be an assassin.

Eventually, he realized that the oath he'd sworn had held real power. And that the woman he'd sworn it to was extraordinarily appealing…and dealing with feelings for her fellow Grey Warden, the royal bastard.

Wynne wasted many exasperated sighs in the general direction of the Wardens. Later, when he learned everything those sighs meant, he rather agreed with her.

* * *

She refused to take Alistair into the Deep Roads with her.

Instead, she took Shale, Oghren, and himself. She left Lorn behind as well, ostensibly to guard the camp. "Tie Alistair up if you have to," she'd told Wynne. "He is _not_ going into the Crossroads with me." Wynne seemed to understand, and went to talk with Alistair while the rest of them left their camp outside Orzammar…quietly.

At least as quietly as any group with both perpetually drunken dwarf and a gods-touched _golem _in it could possibly leave anywhere. "Why'd you leave him behind, anyway?" Oghren asked. "Could have used another blade down there."

"Deep Roads," she said shortly. "I'm not looking forward to what I'm going to find down there. One of us, at least, should be untouched by the sight."

The dwarf laughed. "Ah, girl, admit the real reason. You wanted some private time with old Oghren, away from your knight's watchful eyes!" Kathil rolled her eyes, and said something bantering back, and they were off again.

Oghren had only been with them a few days, and he was too pleased that someone was finally helping him find his missing wife to realize that there was something wrong with that statement. Grey Wardens killed darkspawn. It was one of the things that defined them. They were not expected to be daunted by the Deep Roads, especially when the darkspawn had largely abandoned them to pour out onto the surface.

Then eerie rhymes began to whisper around them in the darkness.

Then, they met Hespith.

Then. The broodmother.

They made camp in a small cave just beyond the broodmother's chamber. It was not far enough away to escape the stink of flesh that had been corrupted when it was alive and now smelled like it had been rotting for weeks, not hours. Also not nearly far away to escape the memories of what had happened within that flesh-walled chamber. Nowhere was far enough for that.

Oghren had wrapped himself in a blanket and gone to sleep. Shale stood in the corridor, keeping watch. They had no fire, just some rocks enchanted to give off a weak and wavering light. Kathil sat with her back against the stone, staring at the light.

The greenish light made her skin an awful color, pale and ill. At least, he chose to believe it was the light. "That…back there," he said, and his voice was unexpectedly loud in the small space. "That was why you left Alistair behind."

"Mages research," she said, not looking at him. "It's what we do. I was interested in the old roads as an apprentice, and when I was digging into that I came across an account written by a dwarf who'd followed a bunch of Grey Wardens into the Deep Roads during a Blight. He didn't see the broodmother alive. He didn't have to. If we both survive the Blight, I need Alistair willing to go into the Deep Roads with me, at the end. I don't want to go alone."

"At the end?" he asked.

"Thirty years, and then the darkspawn blood in us drives us mad. Then it's time for one last trip down here. "

It took him a moment to be able to speak. "That is…a terrible end for one so lovely. And with what Hespith said—"

Kathil did look at him, now. "Yes. Hespith."

The look on her face stabbed through him; he could almost feel his flesh parting around cold steel and colder fear. There were no words that had any chance of making anything better. Instead, he silently raised one arm, an invitation. He expected her to reject it and continue to brood.

She surprised him. A moment later, there was a Grey Warden leaning against him, his arm around her shoulders. She smelled—strange. He should have been smelling sour sweat and steel with a tinge of blood, as they all smelled after a battle.

She smelled like ice, like he would imagine starlight would smell. Familiar. Like lyrium and magic.

_No wonder mages are not counted as people, if they all smell of magic._

"So I came down here with one who belongs under stone, one who _is_ stone, and you," she said quietly after a moment.

He chuckled, just a little. "And what is so stony about me, little one?"

Her shoulders stiffened, and he was afraid for a moment that he'd truly misstepped. But she didn't pull away. "Your heart, Zevran. Surrounded by stone."

It was his turn to tense, to fight the urge to deny. "It is not an inaccurate description," he said, at last. "Though I fear it does me little justice."

"I wish I could be the same way, sometimes. It would make all of this a bit easier." Her voice carried a bone-deep exhaustion.

He tightened his arm around her in reply, and there were no more words between them. A little time passed, and he realized that she had fallen asleep sitting against him, her head on his shoulder, her breathing deep and slow. He allowed himself one small liberty, then.

He turned his head and kissed her hair, breathing in the alien smell of lyrium.

Then he laid her down and covered her with a blanket, and went to get his own blanket. She woke as he moved, and lifted her head. "Zevran…ah. Do you mind…?"

That night under stone, they slept with her back curled into his front, and Zevran was too tired—_and rattled, don't forget that_—to take any advantage of it whatsoever. His dreams were full of starlight and ice. They rose after a few hours, since morning was a meaningless word this far underground, and started walking, searching for the Anvil of the Void.

Neither of them had ever spoken of that night again.

Somewhere down in the deep, Kathil had stopped being a Grey Warden, and become _his_ Grey Warden. The oath he'd sworn to save his life had somehow become true and binding. He'd stopped being a Crow at last.

_That, little one, has caused endless trouble for me. And here I am, bringing that trouble back to you._

* * *

By a stroke of unfortunate luck, Knight Commander Greagoir himself was manning the entry hall. He recognized Zevran, if the frosty glare the knight gave him was anything to go by. "What are you doing here?" he said, his clipped voice making _you_ a deadly insult.

"One _does_ like to travel," he said to the knight. Greagoir was flanked by two Templars, their helmets obscuring their faces. They might have been empty suits of armor on stands, except that the one on the left was shifting as if he couldn't wait for his post to be over so he could go use the privy. "The Grey Warden is in residence, yes? I would like to see her."

More cold glare. Zevran was starting to get the impression that the commander wasn't very fond of him. "She is, but the Tower does not allow…visitors."

"Really. Even the Grey Warden? I would have thought she is still an exception to the rules."

"Senior Enchanter Kathil is not available for visitors." Zevran was impressed. The man was positively glacial.

So that was how he wished to play it, was it? "Surely you could send someone to ask her. She must be busy, I know, but perhaps she can make a little time to see an old friend—"

"_No_. Go, Antivan. You are not welcome here."

Something was very, very wrong. He eyed the Knight Commander and the two suits of armor next to him, deciding just how much work it would be kill them. He could do it, and from what he had heard the Circle was not particularly populous at the moment. He could lose himself in the halls.

Unfortunately, Kathil would probably not appreciate him carving a path to her through the Templars. _Pity._ "Ah, Knight Commander. The Grey Warden always spoke so highly of you. I promise, a few minutes with her and I will be on my way." He smiled at Greagoir. "I did stop by Denerim on my way here. The King gave me a few messages for her."

Ah, _that_ made the man uneasy. "Give them to me. I will ensure they reach her."

"He made me promise to give them to her personally. He _is_ a bit unreasonable sometimes, and I would like to see the job done properly." All of his instincts screamed at him that something was very, very wrong here. Why did they just not go fetch his Warden? Had something happened to her?

Then came a sound to still the heart.

The long, heartbroken howl of a Mabari warhound.

Zevran no longer cared about diplomacy. He fixed the Knight Commander with a glare of his own. "That was Lorn. Explain to me what has happened."

"It is Circle business." Lorn howled again—he was at least two floors up, from the way the sound was muffled. "But I am not going to get rid of you until I tell you, am I?"

He stifled the first three responses that came to mind. "You will not. And if my reputation has preceded me…it would be better for you to simply tell me, no?"

Greagoir sighed. "She is Fade-struck." At Zevran's questioning look, he continued. "She arrived here three days ago, was escorted to her chambers, and then did not wake the next morning. First Enchanter Irving believes that she is trapped in the Fade, for some reason. It is something to do with the Veil being permeable in the Tower. She may have attracted the attention of a demon of a type we have not seen before. She is under constant guard. Just in case."

_Just in case the Templars have to put a sword through her chest when she wakes._ "I will see her. Now."

"There is nothing to see," Greagoir said. "She sleeps."

"Then I will see her sleeping, yes? I am sure, when I carry this news back to Denerim, that Alistair will be _most_ interested in whether I have verified her condition for myself."

Greagoir made a noise somewhere between a growl and a resigned sigh. "Cullen. You're due to relieve Guaire anyway. Show our visitor to the Senior Enchanter's quarters. Do not leave him alone at any time. When he has seen her, escort him out."

Cullen? Why was that name familiar? Ah, yes, that Templar who had been trapped by the blood mages when they had made their successful bid to break the Circle. The suit of armor on the left nodded to the Knight Commander and turned on his heel, motioning Zevran to follow.

Three very long flights of stairs later, Cullen was escorting Zevran through one of what seemed like a hundred identical doors on a long circular hallway. Just inside, the Templar paused and took off his helmet. "She's right over there," he said, and went to go talk to the other Templar in the room.

The directions were unnecessary. Though the place was a mess, there was a bed intact yet. Next to that bed was a very familiar warhound, who sat with head resting on the sheets next to Kathil's unmoving hand. He whined when Zevran approached.

"It is just me, yes?" he said to Lorn. The warhound cocked one ear at Zevran but did not move his head. Zevran came around to the other side of the bed, pulled up the chair he found there.

Her eyes were closed, and she was utterly still except for the steady, soft rise and fall of her chest. _She did not have that scar when I last saw her._ He drank the sight of her in, from pale tangled hair to how her lips were slightly parted, betraying the crooked front tooth that she had always been self-conscious about. Life had used her hard since he had last seen her. Still, there was something in him that was caroling with a fierce gladness, and his heart was beating fast.

He had come here expecting that she would be already bored, looking forward to the challenge of dealing with the problems on his heels. And he had come here looking forward, at the very least, to seeing his friend once more.

The other Templar had departed. Zevran raised his eyes and looked at Cullen, who had set his helmet down on the back of a fallen armoire before taking up position by the wall. "Is there nothing that can be done for her?"

Cullen shrugged, armor clattering. "The First Enchanter would have done something, if there was anything to be done. The longer she spends in the Fade, the more likely it is that what comes back won't be her."

Oh, now, _that_ rankled. "Is that your opinion? Or that of your charming Commander?"

A faint flush appeared on the young man's cheeks. "Slaying abominations is our business."

"And you do not know her, Templar," he said, turning his attention back to the woman lying on the bed. What had she been doing, to get those scars? Her face, and her hands—

"I stood at her Harrowing. I know her better than you think." There was just a touch of petulance about the boy's statement.

"If you think she is not stronger than any demon, you have no right to claim that you know her in the slightest." He spoke from a place of absolute faith that he was surprised that he owned, and did not turn to look at the Templar. "We simply have to find a way to call her back."

"And what is she to you, _elf_?" Definitely petulance. He looked up. Cullen had taken a step forward, and those helmets were good for something after all. The Templars did not learn how to keep emotions from flitting across their faces, and there was something wavering between hatred and a protective jealousy in the Templar's eyes.

_Ah. I think I see why you fled the Tower, lovely one._ "I am her friend, and she holds my oath of loyalty," he said simply. "And I need her awake and alive."

"Why?" The Templar's hand went to the hilt of his sword.

Zevran chuckled. "Because, young one, in about a day and a half there will be a flock of Antivan Crows on the doorstep of the Circle Tower who wish to speak to me and her. And if they do not find us here, they are likely to kill every soul here. So it is a matter of some urgency."

Cullen gaped. Then closed his mouth, and swallowed. "I—"

"Run and find your Commander. I will not go anywhere."

Indecision passed over Cullen's face like clouds on a spring day. Then he grabbed his helmet, spun on his heel, and ran out of the room with a great clatter. Zevran turned back to Kathil, and took one of her cool hands between hers. Across the bed, he saw Lorn lick her other hand.

"You must come back, my Grey Warden," he told her. "Else we are both dead, I fear."

* * *

_Kathil:_

The one constant in the Fade, it was said, was that every point was equidistant from the Black City. _I am losing my mind._ She'd never lost her way on the old roads like this before, not this badly, and she didn't have any idea how long she had been here. And wherever _here_ was, unlike everywhere else in the Fade, the Black City was close.

_This is where I start regretting pushing myself so hard to make time between Denerim and the Tower._ The Black City loomed in front of her. She could see the gates, twisted and blackened. She'd never been this close before. Nobody had, not since the magisters of the Imperium. The sky was washed with red, and there was a howling emanating from within the gates.

The land crawled away from her when she wasn't looking. She could take a step and find herself somewhere else entirely. All she could do was stay still, and try to ignore the movements she could only see out of the corners of her eyes.

_Absence._ She gritted her teeth. She'd once thought that the Chantry had exaggerated the sins that had doomed mankind to the Maker's inattention. No longer. _If I live, I will have to tell Leliana. _The Black City screamed with the absence of its creator. She would have clutched at the normal perils of the Fade if she could only get back there. Anything would be better than this.

She'd been tired. It was easier to set her feet on the old roads when she was tired. She was so far from home, and she was still so tired.

Kathil sat down at the base of a twisted stone spire. Above her head, the rock shifted uneasily. As she glanced up, it bulged as if the surface of the stone were cloth and something pressed against it, trying to get out. After a moment, the blank-eyed face disappeared.

The Black City, so close she could see the crumbling walls. It scrubbed at her mind, erasing thought. She curled her hands in her robes, trying to think. _Robes?_ Where was her armor, her sword?

Something approached. Kathil pulled herself to her feet. Best to meet the demons standing. She heard footsteps, light ones. A desire demon, then. They were the only ones who could pretend to be human in the Fade. She readied a spell—tried to ready a spell. It slipped away from her useless mind, her numb tongue.

_Oh, Maker…_

The footsteps stopped, and Kathil looked up.

Blinked.

"_Wynne?_"

It had to be a trick. A desire demon, preying on her need for someone to help guide her off the old roads. Yet—why take Wynne's form?

"You seem to be lost, child." Wynne's voice was gently chiding, and the fatigue was beginning to ebb a little. "What are you doing all the way out here? This is not a good place for anyone, and especially not the living."

She looked exactly the same as she had when she'd died, still the white hair and the dark, kind eyes. And, confusingly, she still _felt_ like Wynne always had.

It was a trick. It had to be a trick. Kathil turned and fled into the twisted landscape

Towards the Black City.


	4. What Understanding Defies

**Three: What Understanding Defies**

* * *

_Wynne:_

Being dead was very little like Wynne had imagined.

She'd rather expected that there would be some sort of translation, at least. Weren't human souls supposed to go join the Maker, if they'd been at least a little pious? She couldn't recall having done much to have offended Him.

Instead, she seemed to have somehow stayed herself.

Only not truly herself. The spirit…

Best not to think of it right now. She had a very foolish Grey Warden to locate.

Time always moved strangely in the Fade. Wynne had an idea that a few years had passed since her physical body had perished, giving in finally to the death that she had put off once too often. She'd retreated from the places that dreamers usually frequented, going deeper into the broken parts of the spirit realm.

There, she'd discovered that what the mages referred to as the old roads existed. She'd always thought they were a fable of sorts, a tale from the days when the first sin had fooled men into serving ancient dragons as their gods rather than the Maker.

They were difficult to describe. Places where the Veil was thin, places that existed partially in each realm. Things ancient and wild lived on the old roads. Some of them were friendly, some less so. Some of them were so far beyond Wynne's understanding that she could only hazard a guess how they felt about those who came through their places.

At first, she'd thought she was imagining things when she saw traces of both Morrigan and Kathil on the old roads. Morrigan left the stink of spider-flesh behind her when she moved through the Fade. Kathil's trail was lightning and ice. Wynne had thought at first that perhaps it was wishful thinking. And then it had been much more real—she had seen them both, on separate roads. Morrigan seemed to move with difficulty, but Kathil had followed the old road with ease.

The Grey Warden, during the war, had displayed a talent that Wynne had thought extinct—the ability to somehow be on both sides of the Veil at once, to walk in a waking dream and a dreaming mortal realm, and _fight_ in that state. "Come and get me," she had laughed at the Archdemon. "Come and get me!"

That last mad battle had broken something in the girl. It probably had something to do with the fact that the battle hand ended, the Archdemon had died, and neither of the Grey Wardens lay dead on the field. If she were a betting woman—spirit—whatever she was, she would guess that Kathil had talked Alistair into doing something stupid.

Wynne regretted having to leave so soon afterward. But there had been a calling that Wynne, no matter how much she wanted to stay, could no longer ignore. She had closed her eyes in the mortal world and opened them in the Fade, and it had taken her some time to discover what had happened to her.

How long had it been? Some time. Some time, coming to terms with what she was, finding the old roads, scenting the trails of mages as the demons did. The old roads…they did not just contain living things. In a way, they _were _alive. Sentient in their own way.

And they could communicate.

_There is a living being too close to the Black City._ The summons still rang in her mind, the old road singing, opening, enfolding.

_Eliminate it._

Wynne could have wings, if she desired. She plunged towards where the old road twisted, trying to shake off the mortal who was far too close to the place that anchored the Fade, the place where the taint emanated from, was contained.

_Protect the barrier._

Wynne had to get there before the other denizens of the Fade did. She was very afraid that she knew who the mortal was.

When she arrived, she found that her worst fears were true. Kathil was curled upon herself at the foot of a soulstone spire, her face in her hands. The old road itself was attacking her, she saw, in all the ways it could manage. Wynne, carefully, extended comfort.

It worked for a moment. The Grey Warden had looked up, recognized her. Then she had fled, which had been Wynne's intent.

Only, instead of running towards the Desire Districts, she had taken off _toward_ the Black City.

Foolish, _foolish_ mageling!

So close to the Black City, even Wynne's energy was flagging. She was not meant to withstand the Black City's song, not as she was now. Yet she followed. She must follow.

The old roads were not benevolent. The ancient souls that powered them were not without agendas of their own. If Kathil breached the barrier that protected the Black City from the Fade and the Fade from the Black City, the mortal world would have so much worse than just a Blight and an Archdemon to worry about. She _must_ be stopped, but Wynne could not go much further towards the Black City.

Wynne slowed and came to a stop. There was another way. But she would have to be lucky, and she hated relying on luck.

Still, she turned back. Thought was motion, in the Fade, and she was at her destination only a heartbeat later.

She used to have conversations with her guardian spirit. It watched over her, protected her, but it never answered. Not until the day she had fallen in battle, when it had taken her, wrapped her up in its wings, returned her into life.

_Who are you?_

_Who you think I am._

_Why are you watching over me?_

_Because I am you, and you me._

Was she still Wynne, after that day? She did not know. She did not know so much, why her heart still beat and her lungs still breathed, why she still walked the world and teased the younglings who had been entrusted to her care. She had just known that when the Circle had broken and the young Grey Wardens had walked in to try to fix it, she needed to go with them.

And perhaps she was still herself. She had not felt much different, other than when she would call on the spirit in battle and afterward be left stunned and shaking, unable to do much for long minutes while the spirit retreated, exhausted, to the Fade.

But after, when her mortal vessel had cracked and broken, at last worn through by the amount of power that had been pouring through it for just over a year—

_Because I am you, and you me._

There was a chance that her protector spirit had always been in contact with mages, that in time she would feel the need to find her own mortal vessel and renew the compact. Perhaps spirits, too, wished to be translated as mortals were when they found their deaths.

Perhaps, perhaps. What she needed right now was some certainty.

The Circle Tower was a bright spot in the Fade, a glowing beacon for those who gathered there, hungry for what lay on the other side of the veil. Wynne had been a mage. She knew as the demons did not how the Fade was layered here, how to find a specific place in the Tower. How to find a specific person in the Tower.

Soon, she was pressed up against the Veil, watching. Yes, there was Kathil, and that dog of hers next to her bed. The one bending over her bed—not Irving, as she'd hoped, another form just as familiar but much less dear. The assassin.

What was _he_ doing there?

There was something happening in the room. She could see forms moving, flickering—the Templars were black patches to her sight, their talents hiding them from all this side of the Veil—and she could hear indistinct voices. That was definitely Greagoir shouting. A shadow stepped between Greagoir 's voice and Kathil's bed. Lorn whirled and crouched, barking loudly enough to echo in the Fade.

Where was Irving? She pressed harder against the Veil, as if by force of will alone she could summon him. _I need you, old friend. I need—_

The dark flicker between Greagoir and Kathil flared, and power struck Wynne like a fist and sent her spinning away from the Veil. _Templars!_ That had been one using his talent, probably in anger.

She stopped. Stared at the Veil thoughtfully. It sparkled at her.

She needed a mortal vessel. It did not, strictly speaking, _have_ to be a mage.

Thought was action, and action thought. She had healed Zevran many times, knew him well enough to be able to insinuate some power through the Veil and into his mind. She did not know if it would be enough, but she would try.

Heartbeats were passing. The old road was still trumpeting its coronets. _Too close, too close, too close!_

What she encountered first: worry.

Somehow, she had never suspected the elf of having such a capacity for concern. There were many things happening, he had blades in his hands and a maelstrom of words in his mind, but he was afraid for the mage who lay in the bed behind him. He was standing next to Cullen—_ah yes, it would be Cullen, wouldn't it?_—and challenging Greagoir, who wanted to slay Kathil's mortal vessel.

That would be a mistake ten times greater than allowing her to become an abomination. It must be prevented. Kathil was lost. She must be found. She must be shown the way home.

_Zevran. Listen to me. Let Cullen and Lorn deal with Greagoir. There is something you must do._

The second shock: the elf listened. Without question. He _trusted_ Wynne, even though he knew she was dead. He sheathed his blades and turned to the bed. _Touch her face. Call her name. Concentrate on calling her back from the Fade. I will do the rest._

She ignored the shouts coming from the room in the mortal world. This was more important. Zevran called, and she powered that call. His call was strong, stronger than Wynne expected. _Oathbound. Of course._

She could feel the Grey Warden's skin under his fingertips, feel him brush the hair out of her eyes. _You must come back now, lovely one. You cannot tarry._

_You must come home. To me._

_I need you._

It was hard, pushing power through the Veil, and Wynne soon fell back, exhausted. The Fade shook with the old road's indignation.

She would discover if it had worked soon enough.

* * *

_Kathil:_

Kathil was almost close enough to touch the walls of the Black City.

It had become easier to think, once she was within reach of it. She'd stepped off the old road, and now she knew enough to be very, very afraid. Just beyond her vision, out of the corner of her eye, nightmares paced. They waited for her to make a decision. Forward, to the Black City, or back, into their arms.

Damned either way.

The walls were not entirely black. They had been golden once, and gold still glinted beneath the scorch and crumble. The sky above the walls was blood-red still, but the howling had quieted.

The Black City sang now, a lullaby to her weary bones. There was rest within, it sang. There was comfort as she had not known for years. Within those battered walls, there was no such thing as a man she loved but could never have in any of the ways that mattered. No such thing as companions who had wandered on their way, leaving her behind. Nobody would stare. She would be perfected, within those walls.

She longed to leave all of her weaknesses behind.

Kathil glanced to the side, where nightmares—creatures neither demon nor spirit but something entirely other—paced. She would be torn apart if she stepped back from the wall. She would die and her mortal body would be taken by one of them.

Perhaps the grim unknown was better than the grisly known.

Then, the voice, tickling in her ear. _I need you._

_You must come back now, lovely one._

There was someone touching her face with exaggerated care. Invisible fingers brushed over her hair. Kathil flinched, but the sensation seemed to be doing no harm, and was warming something that had gone cold inside of her. Above her, the Black City's lullaby was transmuting back to a howl. How could she have ever thought its song was _beautiful_? It was twisted. Dead. Tainted.

_You cannot tarry._

She wrapped a cloak of lightning around herself and ran forward. The gathered nightmares paused, taken aback. She was moving fast, faster, hurdling over the old road and running on, dream-space splitting in front of her, she was away from the Black City and she was almost home, almost, almost—

She opened her eyes.

There was a face just inches from hers. She blinked, and the features resolved. Familiar. Handsome. _Tattooed—_

"_Zevran_?"

He opened his mouth as if to reply, and then his eyes widened, just a little, just briefly. Then he was falling, slumping to one side and landing hard on Kathil's midsection. There was a _sword_ in his back—

Wielded by none other than Knight Commander Greagoir himself.

Kathil shrieked and spread her hands, lending her power to that cry that rippled out from her in all directions. Greagoir stumbled back, pulling his sword out of Zevran as he did, and she sat up. Blood was spreading over Zevran's armor and spilling onto the blanket that covered her, and he was not moving.

_No. I don't lose you. Not today, not like this._

She was no Wynne, but she could do some healing, and she was fresh from the Fade and full of burning power. It was the work of a moment to put her hand on the wound and knit it closed, to repair things beneath that had been sliced and punctured.

Only then did she look up.

The room was full of people—Templars in full armor, Greagoir glowering, Lorn next to her, crouched, still growling. Behind the Templars were more people—mages? Was that Irving back there?

On her lap, Zevran stirred. "Ah, you're awake," he said. "Good, good."

Then Greagoir started shouting, Irving shoved through the crowd and began shouting back, Lorn started howling, and most of the Templars were looking at their commander. One was still staring at Kathil.

"You're going to have to tell me what happened," she said. "After you get off of me."

"But it is so comfortable here! Ah, we have an audience. Perhaps another time." He levered himself away, and she got up, wishing that the backpack with all of her clothes in it other than the short shift she was wearing was not across the very crowded room.

She dropped to her knees and threw her arms around Lorn's neck. "Maybe they'll stop shouting soon and tell me what—"

But Lorn was licking her face with his giant tongue, his stubby tail flailing in a jubilant wag, and she was laughing, which was _not_ a good idea when the Mabari's tongue was slobbering all over her cheeks, but she didn't care.

It would be all right. It would have to be.


	5. Landscape of Merry and Desperate Drought

**Chapter Four: A Landscape of Merry and Desperate Drought**

* * *

_Cullen:_

Cullen was a dead man.

Maker's Balls, how could he have possibly been so _stupid_?

Insubordination. Betrayal of the most basic principles of his discipline and faith. _Drawing steel on the Knight Commander._

Idiot, idiot, _idiot_!

After the Antivan had oh-so-casually mentioned the fact that there were assassins heading towards the Tower, and that was why he needed Kathil awake (_as if the rest of them had no reason to want her up and well_, a resentful voice in the back of his head whispered), he had gone running for Commander Greagoir. His stammered explanation hadn't been particularly coherent, but it had been understandable enough to bring Greagoir to the Senior Enchanter's room to confront the elf who sat by her bed.

Zevran had confirmed what he'd said. Cullen had seen the Knight Commander saddened, resigned, determined, disappointed. He'd never seen him truly angry until that moment.

The elf had argued, of course, needling Greagoir further. The Mabari who had accompanied the Grey Warden to the Tower had added his voice, barking furiously, especially when Greagoir started saying that it would be best if Kathil died now, before she woke and became an abomination. Mages gone bad were Templar business, and mages who attracted the attention of the Crows evidently qualified as gone bad.

The elf had drawn his blades, and stated calmly that they would have to kill him first. He did not flinch as he looked into Greagoir's face and practically dared him to do his worst. The warhound had added his support to that statement with a snarl.

Their confrontation had attracted attention, and outside the door Templars and mages alike were peering into the room. "Cullen, to me," the Knight Commander ordered. "We will take care of this, here and now."

Maker, _why_ had he not just obeyed orders?

All he knew was that a sense of the unfairness of the situation had been growing in him for days. If the stories were true, the Grey Warden had saved them all. How could they just kill her? If she were an abomination already, that would be one thing, but—she was just lying there. Sleeping.

(And perhaps it was the accumulated weight of years of watching her. They were the same age, had the same accent, probably came from the same part of Ferelden. Still, he remembered Jowan. She had loved him without reservation and apparently had never thought that he might not be telling her the truth.

But they had found out about Jowan, hadn't they? And now they might find out about her—)

Whatever had possessed him in that moment to step _past_ Greagoir without a naked blade in his hand, turn, and just _stand there_?

The Knight Commander had gone pale with rage, and things abruptly _happened_—the Commander's great sword had swept out of its sheath as if possessed, and suddenly there was a _whole lot_ of steel in the room in a way somehow different than the usual fights against darkspawn, against abominations, against mages—

There were mages crowding into the room, he reflexively used one of the Templar talents to interrupt any spellcasting they were trying—the Mabari rushed Greagoir and the assassin was on its heels—

_Oh Maker, Maker, forgive me—_

And then the elf was behind him and he and the warhound were holding off the Commander by themselves, and he didn't really _want_ to hit Greagoir and that proved to be his undoing—he was battered aside by a mailed arm and the dog yelped and howled—

_No._

The Commander's sword slid into the elf's lower back with a wet slicing sound and Zevran looked startled and slumped forward onto the bed.

And Kathil—

—_sat up._

Her scream held power that sent everyone within ten feet of her stumbling. She laid her hand on the elf's wound and the blood was flowing over her hand, thick dark red. Then the First Enchanter was in the room and shouting and the Knight Commander was shouting back and Cullen was standing there, sword in his hand, wondering if there was anything in the room that he might quietly crawl under and die.

Zevran stood and Kathil slid out of bed and threw her arms around the warhound's thick neck, murmuring into its pricked ear. She was wearing only a short shift, which was a little strange because mages weren't really supposed to have legs, at least not out where everyone could see them. They were nice legs.

_Oh Maker I'm staring._

Right. Take his eyes off the Grey Warden. Put his sword away. Try to pay attention to the argument between the First Enchanter and the Knight Commander. Try not to think, just _stand there._

"Greagoir," Irving was saying, and his tone had shifted into the conciliatory. "She is not a demon. The Mabari are very sensitive to such things. Killing her will help nothing now, and it might well make things much worse. Let us deal with the problems we have, not the ones we're borrowing."

"Fine." The Commander looked like he wasn't done arguing, but he would postpone the real fight for later, in private. "Have your people check her out. Templars, two guards on the Grey Warden and her guest at all times. _No _exceptions. And _you_, Cullen." Cullen flinched. "You are coming with me."

Ten minutes later Cullen had been stripped of his armor and sword and thrown into one of the cells in the basement of the Tower usually reserved for prisoners awaiting interrogation. It was cold down here, and damp, and he could almost feel the icy waters of Lake Calenhad lapping at the foundations of the Tower mere yards away.

He put his head against the stone of the wall. Any moment, someone would come down the hallway with a sword, and they would unlock the door and put that sword through Cullen, and he would die and there would be no need for _any_ of this anymore.

* * *

They were both twelve when they met for the first time. She'd been in the Tower for eight years; he had just arrived. He was feeling awfully homesick, those first few weeks. If there was any place in Ferelden more different from the warmth of Waking Sea than the cold Circle Tower, he was hard-pressed to think of it.

(Of course, memory betrayed him there. There were places far more different. The Tower after an invasion of blood mages, for instance.)

He was on an errand for a senior Templar, she was going down to the apprentice quarters after an evening spent in the library. They'd run into each other on the stairs, literally; neither of them were looking where they were going.

"My best _quill_!" The apprentice had been gathering together her books, and now stared in dismay at the writing implement that was now snapped in half, useless. She hadn't been very tall even then, and she had evidently given herself a haircut in the last few weeks because her head vaguely resembled a hay stacked by a crazy person, all different lengths and sticking out all over.

"I'm sorry," he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say, and the revered sisters had always told him that being polite never hurt anything.

She sighed and shoved the broken quill in her pocket. "Not your fault, I'm the clumsy one. I had a small book, red cover—do you see it?"

Said book had whacked Cullen on the knee. He handed it to her. "Here. I'm Cullen, by the way."

The mageling had smiled at him then. "I'm Kathil. You're new, right?" Cullen nodded. "We're not supposed to talk to the Templars, you know. Even the new initiates."

"Well, you're talking to me now," he pointed out.

She sat down on the stone step, tucking her feet up under her robes. "Looks that way, doesn't it? Nobody uses these stairs at night, that's why I wasn't watching where I was going. We won't get in trouble. Where are you from, Cullen?"

"Waking Sea. You?" The question is out of his mouth before he remembers the very long list of things one is never, ever supposed to talk to a mage about on the rare occasions when they cannot avoid speaking to them. "Oh. Sorry."

"It's all right." She didn't answer the question; later, he found out that she had no memories before the day she'd arrived at the Tower. They kept talking, though, and Cullen had gotten punished later for being late. It had been worth it.

In retrospect, as an adult, Cullen could see that it had been nothing. An apprentice mage, possibly feeling a bit lonely herself as old friends began to pull away, as they all grew more serious about studying as the Harrowing became less _someday_ and more _someday soon_. A young Templar initiate, hungry for companionship, tired and willing to put aside everything he was learning for a few minutes of conversation.

It had felt far more important, at the time.

Then he had stood at her Harrowing, and everything had changed. And then—within two days—she had transgressed and been sent away from the Tower with the Grey Warden Duncan.

It was a death sentence. He had told himself it didn't matter. Just another mage, another potential abomination.

* * *

There, the sound he had been waiting for: steps in the long hallway that led to his cell. He didn't open his eyes. Best not to struggle and get it over with quickly.

The footsteps were wrong. Templars made a distinctive sound while walking, metal armor clattering, heavy boots thumping authoritatively. The person walking down the hall was armored, but far more lightly.

"Cullen?"

_Her_ voice. He opened his eyes, and she was there on the other side of the bars, looking at him with something approaching concern in her eyes. "Are you all right?"

"What are you doing here?" he asked, appalled. "And without a Templar?"

An annoyed look briefly crossed her face. "I don't have long, Cullen, they're going to get wise to me being gone soon enough. I take it you're all right, that's what I wanted to make sure of. I didn't want to make a fuss over defending you if you'd been summarily executed."

He gaped at her. "Defending _me_?"

"Are you _sure_ you haven't been hit on the head or anything? It might take me a few days, but I'll get you out of here. Evidently there's an invasion of assassins I have to take care of first—thank you _so_ much, Zevran."

Another voice, completely unexpected, made Cullen just about jump out of his skin. "It is no trouble, my Grey Warden. Always happy to oblige."

He hadn't heard the elf approaching, but now Zevran's outline was next to Kathil's, shadowy in the flickering light from the lamp behind them. And now he was _very_ glad he hadn't said anything other than stupid repetition, because the assassin's words—_If you think she is not stronger than any demon, you have no right to claim that you know her in the slightest_—still stung.

"I'll get you out, Cullen," Kathil said.

He took a breath. "Why?"

She was still for a long moment. "Because you have suffered much more than you should have, because of me." There was a simple dignity in those words, and what sounded like a dark and aching sadness. "I have to go. I'll be back." Before he could speak again, she retreated.

Cullen stared at the space where she had been. The questions he hadn't had a chance to ask crowded into his throat. _What happened to you? Why did you finally wake up? Why are you back in the Tower, anyway?_

_Are you going to stay, this time?_

He remembered very little of what had happened, when Uldred had turned the Tower into a charnel house. He remembered a cage made of magic. Demons who wore Kathil's face, the face of temptation, pressing their bodies against him.

He had defended himself with faith, with discipline, with the certain knowledge that the mage who appeared to be standing in front of him was dead. They had made her a Grey Warden. All of the Grey Wardens had died at Ostagar.

Then she wasn't dead, and she'd saved the Tower (as much as it could be saved; oh, Maker, the piles of flesh in the corners, the mad blood painting the walls) and he had said some things to a vision that might have been to the real her. He'd been trapped next to the stairs. She would have walked right past him to get to Uldred.

His head had still been clouded by weeks of torment by the time she and her people had left the Tower. She tried to talk to him, he thought he remembered. Tried to ask how he was doing. Tried to apologize—for what, he had no idea. He had probably been rude in return.

A little later, Irving had laid his hands on Cullen's head, and the time he'd spent in the cage had retreated into a place where he no longer had to think about it, ever. It had made taking up his duty once more as one of the last surviving Templars much easier.

But this was another cage. Another trap.

He closed his eyes again, and waited for the demons to come.

* * *

_Kathil:_

"You were attached to him once, were you not?"

There were four flights of stairs between the basement and the main floor of the Tower. Kathil and Zevran were on the second. "Cullen? I suppose, as much as a mage can be attached to someone who might kill them some day. We knew each other a little, as children."

The elf chuckled. "He is cut from the same cloth as Alistair. I believe I can see what caught your attention."

"Zevran, you are a terrible man." And now that Zevran had pointed it out, she _could_ see the similarities—and could not unsee them. "Let's just get to dealing with these Crows, all right? How many do you think they'll send?"

"It is difficult to say." She stumbled a little—she'd lived in this place for seventeen years, she should be used to the uneven stairs by now—and Zevran caught her arm and steadied her. "Careful. If they think highly enough of me, they may send twenty or so."

She raised an eyebrow. "They only sent one after me and Alistair."

"Loughain had only paid for one." He grinned. "It was me. It should have been enough."

It was oddly comfortable to have the assassin around again, so she indulged him. "I would think one of you would be enough for almost anyone, Zevran."

The smile faded from the elf's face, and he sidestepped away from her, retreating to the other side of the staircase as they climbed. "One _would _think, would one not?"

And _that_ was not something she had expected. She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again, thinking better of it. The two years since she had last seen him had changed her. It was stupid of her to have thought that the same hadn't happened to her former companions.

They climbed the rest of the stairs in silence.


	6. The Same Rain

**Five: The Same Rain**

* * *

_(Author's Note: this chapter owes a huge debt to "Ever" by callalili. It's a fantastic story and you should go read it.)_

* * *

_Lorn:_

The humans are arguing again.

"Kathil. You _must_ tell me what happened to you. Whatever it was may have lingering effects that will have to be dealt with."

"I owe you no explanations, First Enchanter." His human smells more like ice than lightning and dust right now, which is bad news for the one who smells like aged parchment and whispers. Lorn is lying down by his human, keeping an eye on her. She went wandering far this time, and when she came back she smelled like someone who Lorn has not seen in some time. He is worried.

"You are a Circle mage. I have a right to a full account when one of my mages has an encounter with strange magic."

"And I am also a Grey Warden. Surely you don't expect me to divulge all of our secrets just because I _happen_ to be a mage of your Circle." His human pauses. "I could leave again, if telling you what happened is a condition of my continued residence here."

Lorn whines, hearing that, and sits up so he can nudge his human's hand. They just _got_ here! The cook promised him that he will save the trimmings from tonight's mutton for him, and the bones. There is a blanket at the foot of the bed that he's already pummeled into Lorn-nest-shape, and he hasn't even gotten a chance to pull down any of the tasty-smelling paper from the big book room yet.

And his human seems different, has ever since she'd awoken from her long nap. They have been traveling so long that Lorn has almost forgotten what it is like to not be constantly moving through the territory of others, forgotten what it is like to have his human smell more like lightning than dust and ice. He likes it when his human smells like that. It means that she is more likely to feed him many biscuits and throw sticks for him, and less likely to wet him with water from her eyes when they stop to sleep at night.

Besides. This big building would be an _admirable_ territory. So _tall_.

His human glances down at him, and he flattens his ears at her in pleading. Can they stay? Please?

She sighs, and laughs a little. The lightning smell in her grows stronger. "I think I'm outvoted, Irving. The thing is, I'm not entirely sure what happened. I've been walking the old roads—yes, _those_ old roads, the ones everyone insists don't exist. I suppose I should start from the beginning…"

Lorn settles down, putting his head on his human's foot. He watches the knights standing nearly motionless by the front door. One of them tried to hurt his human while she was helpless, earlier. When he sees that one again, he is going to bite him. Hard. It isn't either of these two, though. These don't smell of old sweat and fresh anger. They smell like—

Lakewater?

Like deep, cold currents and slimy weeds and the bottom of boats.

He considers all of the reasons a human might smell like the lake. Humans, when they bathe, tend to do it inside in warm water when they can. Sometimes they swim for entertainment (a pastime which Lorn doesn't really approve of, especially not with _his_ human), but he has noticed they do so much more when the sun is hot. The days have been getting shorter, and there's the smell of snow on the wind. It will be forever before the sun is even warm again, much less hot enough for good basking.

So that leaves the last reason, swimming as an alternative to boats. Boats are how people get here, when they are invited to this territory and belong on it.

These humans do _not_ belong here.

His human has her back to them, which is wrong. His human is also unaware that they do not belong, since they look like all of the rest of the metal-encased knights and the frustrating thing about humans is that their little noses are so dull. Lorn learned about ambushes as a pup. They are only fun as long as everyone knows about them.

His first human hadn't known about an ambush, and had died.

The elf who smells of steel and stone isn't in the room, and that is wrong too. Lorn nudges his human's ankle, once and then again. She looks down at him, startled, and he pins his ears back and glances at the door, and the misplaced humans who guard it.

"One moment, Irving. The pup wants a scratching." She folds over in her chair, putting her mouth by his ear, and scratches his rump. "Are you sure?" she mutters. "I am going to be in even more trouble than I already am if you're wrong."

He wags his tail, hard. Oh, he is sure, and one of them just moved his hand in a way that was _not right—_

His human dives to the side, and he springs away from her, howling. Both of the _wrong_ humans startle, turn towards him. Lorn hears a familiar sound, smells the familiar scent of magic gathering, and then the two humans are standing very, very still, frozen in place.

"What are you _doing_?" the human who smells of parchment shouts, but Lorn ignores him and paces towards the lakewater humans, growling. His human beats him there, and pulls the big metal hat off of one of them.

"Do you recognize him?" she asks the parchment-mage.

The parchment-smelling human looks at first startled, then his eyes narrow. "Never seen him before in my life."

"Good. Lorn, _bad men_."

He knows what to do with bad men.

When it is done, he dances joyfully between the bodies, prancing with a huge, bloody grin on his face. He licks his chops as he drops his nose to the ground, sniffing. "Good dog," his human tells him, scratching him behind the ears. "_Very_ good dog."

Yes. He is.

* * *

There are more lakewater humans in the big building. He has hunted here before, when things that smelled of wrongness and rot roamed the halls, and knows where such things might hide. And because they are staying here, it is his territory. It has been a long time since he had a territory, but he knows exactly what to do.

He finds a cache of bodies. Under the blood and death, they smell like they belong in this territory. His human makes strangled noises when she sees the pile. More humans join the search, some of them metal-encased (he does the one who tried to hurt his human the favor of ignoring him for the moment; he can bite him later) but more of them the ones that carry the thin, dusty smell of magic.

They do not find the elf who smells of stone. His human is beginning to sound concerned, and her sweat smells like fear. They eliminate more lakewater humans (_assassins_, his human says, but that is wrong since that is the name for what the elf is, and he is part of what has made his human smell of lightning for the last day) and Lorn does not bother to keep count. "Fourteen," his human says.

Another few caches of bodies later—the lakewater humans are indiscriminate in what they hunt, it seems, and Lorn disapproves of them deeply—and they have found nineteen of those they hunt. They have not found the elf yet. His human looks calm, but she stinks of ice and panic.

Then Lorn catches just the slightest scent of steel, and gives a joyful bay. His human tells the other humans who belong to this place to stay where they are, she will go and see what it is.

Up the stairs, _up_, to the very _top—_

It's a large, many-windowed room, and it positively _reeks_ of lyrium and flame and demon. This is going to be an excellent place to come sunbathe, Lorn decides, when it is summer and the room is drenched with light.

Right now, though, there are no sunbeams. There is, however, his human's assassin, and he lets out a happy bark. Now, the elf should turn and smile at his human.

He does not.

He stands with his back to them, his head bowed. Belatedly, Lorn realizes he smells blood. It is an understandable mistake. He has been smelling blood everywhere. The elf is covered in a sheath of sticky red.

The stink of demon overrides everything else he might smell. Lorn paws at his nose. His human has dropped to one knee beside him, and her arm is over his shoulders. "Not him too," she says, and he hears pain. "Not here."

Movement flickers.

His human is whispering a prayer, and the air smells of ice and blood and demon. She tenses and then she is running, her sword ringing free of its sheath, and she is dancing with shadows that Lorn cannot smell and can only half-see. It is difficult to bite things that are only half in this world and half _elsewhere_, as Lorn has learned from long experience. His human has the trick of it, but she has never been able to teach him.

More movement, where there should be none.

This time, it is not a shadow. It is of this world, it is close to his human's elf, and it is waiting—

Lorn has learned many human words, in his time. One of them is _distraction_.

The shadows were one of those.

He is two hundred pounds of solid muscle, six years of training and experience in protecting his human, and more than that, this is _his_ territory and _his_ human and _his_ human's elf. Lorn is a specialist in dealing with exactly what is in front of him. And what is in front of him is a threat to his human, whose knives smell like demons and lyrium.

The threat, man-shaped but not man-moving, turns to face Lorn, and Lorn gives a howl that shakes the Tower to its base and attacks. Now this, _this_ is fun! The thing he fights is a challenge, hard to dodge and harder to catch to bite, to rend and tear. His human's elf is trying to stir from where he stands, but he is almost as much wound as flesh. His human still battles shadows.

He has a great heart, does Lorn, and he owns no fear in battle.

So when he has a chance, he leaps for the thing's chest, barreling into it and knocking it over backward. The thing sinks a knife into Lorn's shoulder but he is howling with victory, because the throat is exposed and a moment later it is missing and foul blood is spraying everywhere and he is a good, _good_ dog—

The world tears in half.

* * *

When he wakes, his human is crying.

"My fault—oh Maker, this is my _fault_."

Lorn whines, softly, and tries to wag his tail. Moving is _hard_. He manages to lift his head anyway. She is applying a liquid to his skin, and it hurts but it hurts in ways he's become accustomed to after battles, a hurt that promises less hurt soon. Next to him is his human's elf, and he smells like he might be mostly dead. Still breathing, though. Good.

He lays his head back down on the stone floor. His human's hands are shaking. "How am I going to get the both of you down the stairs, Lorn? You and Zevran need more than I can do right now."

He opens his eyes, gives a single wag of his tail. Get Wynne? Wynne can help.

For some reason, makes his human cry even harder. "Wynne is dead, pup. Wynne has been dead for two years."

Then why did you smell like her when you woke? Your elf did, too.

That makes her hands shake even more. There's someone coming up the stairs, he can hear the footsteps. But the liquid that hurt at first is now bearing him away, down into sleep, and Lorn _likes_ sleep.

"Good boy," his human whispers. "I love you."

He sighs a great breath and then he's asleep, running in the big field where there are darkspawn rabbits to hunt down and shake to death.

* * *

_Kathil:_

Those _were_ footsteps on the stairs. Lorn had been right. Kathil sat in the middle of the Harrowing chamber, in front of the lyrium font, and tried not to get her hopes up too far. She thought that they had eliminated all of the assassins, but then again she had also thought that the nightmares that had somehow pushed themselves halfway into this room from the Fade had been the worst of the threats they were going to face that afternoon.

She didn't have any names for the…_thing_ that Lorn had found and attacked. It was vaguely humanoid—at least, it had two arms, two legs, and a head with something like a face on it—but it was not any darkspawn she's ever encountered, and if it had been she wouldn't have missed it in the first place. She was relatively certain it was a mage, though, and its weapons opened wounds that resisted healing.

Kathil had managed to get both Lorn and Zevran to stop bleeding, but they both looked bad. Zevran's skin was about five shades lighter than usual, the unhealthy grey color of shock.

She was exhausted, and if whoever came up the stairs was hostile, they might finish the job that the Archdemon had started over two years ago.

Then the footsteps came through the great arched doorway, and she stared.

It was Greagoir. Next to him was Cullen, still out of armor and looking—confused? Concerned?

The Knight Commander's eyes swept over the wreckage in the Harrowing Chamber, the blood, the corpses that were somehow bleeding into the Fade, the _thing_ that lay with its throat torn out a little way away, the wounded dog and elf and Kathil herself, spattered with blood that belonged to who knew what.

Any moment now, Greagoir's sword was going to come out and he would step forward and it would come down on her neck. She was too tired for more fighting. Easier just to look down at Lorn and smooth the blood-rumpled fur on his head. _Sorry, pup._

Instead, he spoke.

"What happened here?"

"The last assassin laid a trap and used Zevran as bait," she said. "I think, anyway. I dealt with the shadow-things, and Lorn killed whatever that is over there. Its blades were poisoned." She forced herself to look up at the two men. "I've done what I can, but they need a lot more help, and I can't get them down the stairs by myself."

There were shadows on the Commander's face, and he scratched his close-cropped beard with one mailed hand. "I will go summon help. Cullen, stay here." Without waiting for her to reply, he turned on his heel and marched down the stairs.

Leaving her alone with Cullen.

_Maker, you never do give me any quarter, do you?_


	7. Enough To Go By

**Chapter Six: Enough To Go By**

* * *

_Kathil:_

Cullen started forward, then stopped. "Are you all right?"

He looked very odd out of his armor, in a shabby shirt and pants that were too short for him. He still held himself like a Templar, stiff shoulders and all, but without metal encasing him he looked almost lanky, like he hadn't yet quite finished growing into his ears. Kathil rubbed one tired hand across her eyes. "I'll live. And so will these two, if I have anything to say about it. Do you have any idea how many people are dead?"

Unreadable emotions flickered across Cullen's face. "We're going to be burying about thirty Templars, and I think about four mages died."

"Half of Greagoir's command. Dear _Maker_." She looked down at Lorn again, over at Zevran who was lying so still. _Still breathing. Good._ "I thought he was going to kill me, when he came in here."

She heard Cullen shuffle in place, then come forward. He sat down—not next to her, but nearby. "Something about not wanting to cause more trouble between the Chantry and the Crown than already exists. Kathil—" his voice was strained—"what _happened_? Not here, but before. When you were Fade-struck."

Oh. That. At least she owes him that explanation, since it was the thing that might get him executed (though why was he here if that was the case?) or at the very least thrown out on his ear. "Since the Archdemon…I've been wandering. Chasing rumors. Some of those rumors pulled me farther into the Fade than mortals are supposed to go. When I get very tired, I sometimes get lost. Someone was able to call me back. With…help. I don't know where that help came from."

(Though she suspected, and what she suspected made her very sad and afraid. Oh, _Wynne_.)

"And you made me defend you somehow?"

She did look at him now, and the raw _wanting_ on his face made her flinch. If she'd somehow had him under control, she realized, Cullen's life could go back to normal. It wouldn't have been his fault that he had broken his orders.

But Templars are immune to some forms of magic, and she couldn't give him even that comfort. "I'm afraid that was you, Cullen. Control is blood magic, and I don't use it."

The _want_ collapsed into disappointment. "Oh."

There Harrowing Chamber was silent then for a little, except for the rasp of Lorn's breathing. Kathil found herself bowing forward where she sat, memories of the first time she'd set foot in this chamber pressing down on her. To distract herself, she turned to Cullen again. "So why did Greagoir let you out, anyway?"

"He said that we needed all of the pairs of hands we could get." The templar's voice was sullen and bitter. "He didn't give me back my armor or sword, though."

"You do realize that being in that cell probably saved your life, right?" That brought Cullen's head up, and he stared at her. "They killed Templars for their armor. Probably drugged some of the water all of you drink. You probably would have been among them."

"I wish I had." Now the bitterness had fledged and taken on wings, and Cullen was staring at her. "Why did you come back?"

_Why did you come, with all of this darkness and death following you? Why could you not leave us alone?_

There was a laugh in her throat, and it was covered in blades. She swallowed it down. "Believe it or not, Cullen, I wanted to come home. I wanted to _rest_."

_And instead I came here and Zevran followed me, and all this death on our heels._ She didn't blame Zevran for following her—she _had_ made a point of not releasing his oath, more or less demanding that he find her again someday. And he couldn't have known what she'd find on the old roads.

Couldn't have known that she spent as much time fighting half-seen shadows that followed her back from those roads as she did hunting down darkspawn cells. Couldn't have known that she feared she was _becoming _something—and she had no idea what.

Couldn't have known that she'd come back to the Tower in part because there was a strange comfort in the ceaseless watching of the Templars and the knowledge that their steel had been forged to drink the blood of mages.

She reached over to touch Zevran's blood-clumped hair. _I am sorry, my friend, that I was not good enough to save you from this._

Cullen was staring again. "Is he your—leman?" She glanced at him, and this was obviously a question that had been bothering the Templar for some time, from the _I want to know but I don't really want to know and why do I care anyway?_ look on his face.

"No," she replied. "Until he showed up here, I hadn't even seen him for a few years. He's oathbound to me, that's all."

"Why not?" Cullen asked, and then had the grace to look astonished at the audacity of his question. "I mean—it's obvious that you…like each other."

Kathil was too tired to guard her tongue. "Because Zevran doesn't let anyone get that close to him. He'll bed anyone who lets him, but _love_ them? Maker forbid. Besides, when we were traveling together, there was someone else. Who _did_ let me get close to him in the ways that mattered to me." Cullen looked like he was dying of curiosity, and was terrified to ask. "The King, Cullen. He wasn't the King then, just the Grey Warden Alistair, and he was sweet and shy and I pursued him like he was made of diamonds. By the time Zevran joined us, I was already involved with Alistair. I didn't give Zevran much of a second glance."

(But that wasn't _quite_ true, because she had taken him into some very dark places with her and of all her companions it was him she turned to when her heart was despairing—knowing that Alistair and Wynne and Leliana and the rest needed her to be _strong_. Zevran could handle her fear and her hopelessness. His heart was surrounded by stone, and even she could not hurt it.)

"But…" Cullen seemed to be having a difficult time wrapping his head around the idea. "Alistair was a _Templar_."

"He never took his vows," she reminded him.

"He still had the _training_. How did you—he—"

She shook her head. "It helped that he hated being a Templar in the first place. He was never suited for it. As for how I managed to look past it—we do a lot of foolish things for love, Cullen. I went into it with my eyes open. I knew that if he became King, he and I wouldn't be able to be together."

(_"I can see parting from you becoming—difficult. I have to end this now, before I no longer can."_)

That was ancient history, now, and the roads she has walked on since had made her so very tired. Cullen was still staring at her, tongue-tied. "I should stop talking about this. What do you think Greagoir is going to do with you, Cullen? I can probably work to have you reinstated properly—"

But Cullen was shaking his head. "He can't let me stay. I'll be leaving in a few days for Denerim."

"_Denerim_? Why?"

There is a look on the Templar's face that she couldn't name, but she knew it well. Knew it, because she'd worn that same expression once, the day over three years ago when her life changed utterly. The day she had found out Jowan was a blood mage. "I'm being sent to the Grey Wardens."

Her hands were numb and frozen. "But—"

Cullen shook his head, and there was the clatter of footsteps on the stairs, and within moments they were surrounded by mages and Templars who had bandages and healing poultices and litters to put Lorn and Zevran on and carry them down the stairs to the infirmary by the apprentice quarters. While they were being treated, and her own wounds were tended, she could not stop thinking about the look on Cullen's face.

_I am so, so sorry._

* * *

_Zevran:_

Zevran was very good at many things. Pretending to be unconscious was one of them.

He had woken to a world of pain and familiar fingers on his head, a familiar voice speaking above him. He guessed that he was in fact still alive, that he had managed to cheat death at the dice game once more. He was about to open his eyes when he heard the half-stammered question, "Is he…your leman?"

There were some conversations that it would just not do to wake up during. Especially not when someone was talking about _him_. "—but love them? Maker forbid."

She'd meant the reply to be flip, but he knew her well, and he could hear the pain in that statement. As well, he could hear resignation when she spoke of Alistair. His Warden sounded exhausted, plain and simple, going beyond just the physical into some sort of weariness of the soul.

And then Cullen had said _I'm being sent to the Grey Wardens_ and even when Kathil's reply was forestalled by the arrival of help, Zevran believed that that statement might have some implications for his Grey Warden that he did not enjoy thinking of.

He was finally able to let go of the pretense of unconsciousness when the mage who was treating him started checking his head to see if he had a cracked skull. "You're going to have to stay in bed for a few days," the woman said, frowning. He thought he remembered her name being Iselle. "What _happened_? You are a mess."

He smiled at the woman. "Ah, my dancing partner decided that it would be pleasant to spend some time carving pretty patterns into me. An artistic temperament, that one. Would you do me a favor, my beautiful spirit of mercy?"

The mage snorted gently, but the corners of her eyes crinkled, pleased. "What?"

"Tell whoever cleans that chamber that we will need the head of the one with the knives. The Grey Warden will need to spend a very specific message if we do not wish a repeat of this…incident."

Iselle paled and fled.

Eventually, the mages dispersed, blowing out most of the lanterns before they left. Zevran's wounds had been stitched closed and with magical encouragement would heal over the next few days, as would Lorn's. He'd overhead someone saying that Kathil was in better shape, and would be resting in her own bed. It felt startlingly familiar, like the nights in camp when they would settle in and tend their wounds in silence. All that was missing was Wynne.

Ah, Wynne. He did not know how she had helped him call his Grey Warden back from the Fade, but she had somehow. It was mage business, but business he was glad to have been a part of, even if he'd had to challenge the Knight Commander to obtain enough time to save her.

And because Zevran had managed to call Kathil back, she and Lorn had saved him in turn. He did not like thinking about that battle, and he soon would put that memory in the back of his mind, with everything else he preferred not to think of.

Footsteps sounded in the dim. He opened his eyes to see a figure bending over the bed where Lorn lay. "Good boy," Kathil said quietly, nearly whispering. "Such a good dog. You'll be all right. I promise." She knelt next to the bed, her robe rustling. He could hear the sound of her hand passing over Lorn's slick fur, and the warhound's heavy sigh.

"And you are not going to sigh over me and tell me what a good boy I am, lovely one?" he called.

She took a startled breath and got to her feet. "I thought you were asleep."

"With such a one in the room with me? Who could sleep?"

The Grey Warden laughed quietly and came over to his bed. Someone had left a chair by it, and she lowered herself down into it, movement slowed by pain. "I'll send the head and a strongly worded letter to the Crows tomorrow. I'll need your help with telling the messenger how to get it to them. Will that suffice, do you think?"

"It should." He had good sight in the dim; assassins were trained to be able to see by starlight and the leaked light from a shuttered lantern. Kathil looked weary, in some pain; her mouth was set in a firm line. "I could help you write the letter, if you like, but the fact that you will be sending the head of their best back to them will be most of the convincing you need."

She nodded, and even that small motion seemed to take much out of her. "What will you do now, Zevran? The Crows are probably going to let you be, from now on."

"Ah, but that depends on you, does it not?" He didn't know if she could properly see the smile on his lips, but he tried to make sure it was in his voice. "You still hold my oath."

"Oh. That." Kathil bent forward a little. "I don't think the oath is necessary any more. You probably have better things to be doing." Her voice was resigned, much as it had been resigned when she talked about Alistair. She expected him to leave, and to leave her behind. As everyone had except Lorn, whether it was by their will or no.

Until that moment, Zevran hadn't quite been aware that he was planning to do no such thing.

"Do not think you can be rid of me _quite_ so easily, my little bird." He was watching her, and saw her head come up. "I have a feeling that you will still have need of me, in this new world you have built."

She was looking at him as if she couldn't decide what to think about that statement. "It doesn't really matter what_I_ need of you, Zevran. I've been doing all right without my assassin to call on."

He paused. "Have you? Have you truly, my Grey Warden?"

Kathil stared at him, opened her mouth, then shuddered and bowed her head. He was reminded of a night in the Dead Trenches. _Your heart, Zevran. Surrounded by stone._

And yet she stood within the fortress, whether or not she knew.

"There is just enough room for two here," he said. "I promise, I do not have any designs on your body tonight, as beautiful as it is. But I think we could both use some comfort, no?"

She nodded wordlessly, and there followed some painful rearranging of limbs and resettling as it turned out that her shoulder was pressing far too hard against the deep design carved into his chest. She still smelled of starlight, with a tinge of the smell of an approaching lightning storm. Alien, yet familiar.

After a time, in the dim of the infirmary, Kathil began to speak. Her voice stuttered and stumbled as she told him of the bargain she'd struck with Morrigan before the battle with the Archdemon, her search for the witch after staying in Denerim had become too painful to bear. She told him of the old roads, the ancient presences she had struck bargains with, and the nightmares that followed her from those roads and back into the mortal world.

There had been battle after battle, and yet she had returned to the old roads. "There was little enough in the world to hold me here," she whispered. "Just Lorn, and the thought of how heartbroken he would be if I died. He's already lost his person once. How could I do that to him a second time?"

He knew where the new scars on her face and hands came from, now.

She told him of trying to find her family, of visiting Alistair. (Zevran tried to remind himself that she still had feelings for the lout of a King, and kept his mouth shut.) The offer he had made her—time with him on the road, but no acknowledgement of what was between them to anyone—it was a fool's bargain, she knew. Yet she had accepted. _I was just so alone. It felt good that he wanted me, that he could offer even small crumbs to me. So stupid._

Then she began to speak of that last trip into the Fade—coming into the Tower, thinking herself safe at last, falling into an exhausted sleep and finding herself on the oldest of old roads. Her voice cracked as she told him about the Black City, its cracked and ruined stones, the howling that turned into a lullaby. "It offered everything that I want and can't have," she said, and her voice was raw with an edge of tears in it. "Rest and companionship, to make it so I cannot remember what I've lost. All of my weaknesses rubbed away. It lied to me, I _knew_ it lied, and still I almost couldn't turn away."

"You are here and as far as I can tell, you are no demon," Zevran said. "So what happened?"

"I began to feel…someone touching my face. My hair. I heard someone calling me. Telling me that they needed me." She was warming in his arms, and from her voice, it sounded like she was blushing. "It, ah, sounded a lot like your voice. The power that carried it, though, that felt like Wynne."

He chuckled. "I was just thinking that it was odd, because I felt like Wynne was standing next to me, giving me orders like she always would after a battle. I thought it was something to do with being spitted on the Knight Commander's sword just after, however."

"I think Wynne…might still be out there, somewhere. Watching over us. I know it's a terrible thought, but it still feels…" She trailed off.

"Comforting. I know, little one. But to answer the question you did not ask, it was my voice. Something, perhaps Wynne's spirit, told me what to do." He hadn't intended to admit that, but perhaps it was excusable. It _was_ very late and they were both wounded. "I needed you, yes, if only to stop your Knight Commander from killing the both of us and that foolish Templar and likely your warhound into the bargain."

Kathil shifted, just a little. "And now, Zevran? Do you still need me?"

He bent his head forward just a little, and smiled against her hair. "I am not going anywhere, my Grey Warden. We will see."

Soon after that, they both fell asleep, and when he woke at midmorning, she was already gone. But she returned that night, and each night after that.

He never answered her question. Not in words, at least.


	8. Sacred Simplicity

**Seven: Sacred Simplicity**

* * *

_(Author's Note: The next story in this series is "Fearful Symmetries", which you can get to from my profile. Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed!)_

* * *

_Kathil:_

_(four months later)_

"The First Enchanter wishes to see you," the Templar told her.

Kathil straightened and rolled her aching shoulders, putting her quill aside. "Does he, then?" She peered at the Templar. He was one of the new ones, freshly sworn in. Mathias, she thought his name was. "Did he say why?"

"No, Enchanter." Mathias looked around; they were alone in this library niche. He lowered his voice. "I heard that the boat just came across Lake Calenhad."

So it was news, probably. "Thank you, Templar." She shoved herself to her feet and closed the book she'd been studying. The knight fell in behind her, unobtrusively accompanying her up the stairs.

She was getting used to being home, finally. Greagoir had not yet forgiven her for the trouble she had brought in her wake, but even he was starting to admit that Zevran was proving himself useful. The Templars had always been straightforward types, and the elf was teaching them to think a bit more creatively, like the sorts of blackguards they might have to defend the Circle from. The attack by the assassins had been useful in one respect—it had reminded the Templars that their duty was twofold.

The breaking of the Circle had focused all of their attention on protecting the world from mages. The trouble she'd brought back with her had been a forceful reminder that they also had a duty to protect the mages from the world.

Irving was standing by the fire in his office, a slight, tow-headed boy at his side. "I have another apprentice for you, Kathil. Connor, this is Senior Enchanter Kathil. She will be your teacher."

Kathil's heart stopped briefly. _Finally. It took reminding, but she remembered her promise._ "Hello, Connor," she said quietly. "It is good to see you again."

A frown creased the boy's face; too late, she saw Irving shake his head. "We have met, Enchanter? I don't—"

"Ah, no, I was thinking of someone else," she said hastily, realizing that the apprentice ritual had already been performed. Just another baby mage to teach, to try to keep alive long enough to reach the Harrowing. "Come along, we'll get you settled into the apprentice quarters."

"Olasia is on her way for him," Irving said. "Ah, there she is. Kathil, I have a few things for you, stay a moment." Olasia smiled at Kathil and gathered up the newest mageling, escorting him toward the stairs.

"You had news?" Kathil asked.

The First Enchanter smiled slightly, and waved her towards an empty chair. He sat down as well. Irving had been aging rapidly, and day by day they could see his strength ebbing. "Messages, yes. One from the Grey Wardens, one with the royal seal. I did want to ask, though, before I give you those messages—how are you finding your stay here?"

"My stay? Irving, you sound like I'm going to leave at any moment."

He raised an eyebrow, in that way he had when he thought she'd asked a stupid question. "Aren't you?"

She opened her mouth to protest, _of course not_, and then realized what the question Irving had _not_ asked was. "The Grey Wardens and the crown are getting along perfectly well without me. This is my home. I might leave, if circumstances demand, but…I will always come back."

"Good, good. Well, here are those messages." He handed her folded parchment. "The messenger from the crown is waiting in the entrance hall. You might want to write a reply before the man perishes of hunger."

"Oh, Andraste's little _apples_. All right, I'm going." She jumped up and strode toward the door, the hem of her robes whispering against her ankles.

"Kathil?" came Irving's voice from behind her. She paused, and turned. He still had that slight smile on his face. "Just so you're prepared. The next time the Circle meets, I plan on naming you Second Enchanter."

She gaped at him for a moment. Irving was going to name her his _successor_? "I, ah—"

"Get on with you, girl," he said, and his kind tone recalled Wynne to her. "Go read your messages. You and I can talk later."

She fled.

When she got to her room, she discovered that Lorn was asleep on the bed, on his back, snoring like the Maker's own thunderstorm. She poked his belly. "Aren't you meant to be patrolling your territory, puppy?"

Lorn woke with a snort. His tongue came out, and Kathil was just a little too slow in dodging. A moment later, her face had a generous coating of Mabari slobber. Of course he was _supposed_ to be patrolling, said the wildly wagging tail-stub and the grin. He rolled over and tried to lick Kathil's face again. But a nap had ambushed him. Naps were _sneaky._

"They are that," she said, laughing. "Go, Lorn. If you see Zevran, fetch him here. I think he and I need to have a little talk."

Lorn gave a happy whuff and trotted out of the room. Kathil closed the door after him. She opened the message from the Wardens first and scanned it; it was nothing she didn't expect, just news from the ranks. They kept her informed as a courtesy, and likely out of hope she would change her mind and come join them once more. _Maybe some day, but I doubt it._

The only surprise was at the end, just after the list of the new recruits who had survived the Joining. _Cullen survived his Joining easily.. He sends his regards._

"I'm still sorry," she murmured to no one in particular. "But I think you'll be all right, Cullen. I hope, at least."

Then she turned to the other message, sliding the point of her dagger under the wax seal. It was, as she had expected, from Alistair.

_Kathil,_

_You cannot imagine how many times I've written and burned this letter. You're probably finding them in the Fade already, which means I probably don't actually have to send it, but I'm going to try anyway._

_I'm going to visit Waking Sea in the spring. If you'd like to join me, I could use the company. Maybe we can talk some sense into the Arlessa. If that doesn't work, I can shout at her. I've been told I've developed a very good shouting voice in the last few years._

_Let me know._

_Alistair._

"Typical." She stared at the letter, willing the words to change somehow.

There was a familiar voice in her ear. "What is typical, little one?"

She jumped and turned, hitting hard him on the shoulder. Zevran gave her an insouciant grin. "Don't _do_ that, Zevran. Or I'll tie you up and beat you."

He smiled. "Promises, promises. That appears to be the handwriting of the good King Alistair, yes?"

"He wants me to come to Waking Sea with him. I need to send a reply with the messenger who's waiting downstairs." Her hands were shaking, and she put the letter down on her desk. "I think he plans on forcing them to acknowledge me."

"Well, there is no question, is there?" Zevran grinned at her. "Write and tell him we are _both_ coming. Three of us, if you count Lorn."

Her breath caught in her throat. "Are you sure?"

"I would not miss the look on Alistair's face when he sees us for the world," he said, and chuckled.

She hit him on the shoulder again. "You are a very bad man, Zevran. I can't imagine what I see in you. All right, I'll write him back**.** Stay for a bit, there's some other news from the Wardens."

"I wait upon my Grey Warden's pleasure," he said, and in his eyes she saw everything between them that was never spoken.

It was enough, more than enough.

Would always be so much more than _enough_.

* * *

.

_My liege, Alistair,_

_I will join you on the road to Waking Sea in the spring. Lorn will be coming as well, and so will Zevran, who seems to have found himself at home in the Tower._

_I look forward to being a representative of the Circle of Magi on your travels. We have much news to discuss._

_Fondly,_

_Kathil_  
_Senior Enchanter of the Circle of Magi_

_._

* * *

**The End**


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